


You Don't Love Me Yet

by Feelsripper



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: M/M, character piece, just the usual flirations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 02:37:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feelsripper/pseuds/Feelsripper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garak has been many things: a spy, a tailor, but above all, a fool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Don't Love Me Yet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alkalyne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alkalyne/gifts).



Every now and then, Garak would find himself with time on his hands. Usually he found something to occupy himself with, but today he was tragically empty handed. Typically, he'd have one frantic customer who had waited till the last minute to get alterations, but sadly he had no such distractions.

He'd done all he could to make the shop presentable, but still had little to do. It was rare, but he'd close up early on such occasions, and indulge himself with a certain doctor's company. After all, when he was in an impish mood there was only one place he _could_ end up: the infirmary.

Thus, he began his walk to Bashir's domain, savoring the anticipation he felt as thread his way through the crowd.

When he arrived the infirmary surprisingly empty, and Julian was fiddling with things on the shelf to pass the time. Even the staff there seemed to be biding their time until they could clock out.

He stood in the doorway, and cleared his throat to make himself known.

Immediately Bashir turned around, greeting him with a small smile. The other medics had grown accustomed to their little routine, and while it had rocked the boat at first, they hardly paid the pair any mind now.

What little joy the doctor had though, quickly vanished.

“Not pleased to see me, Doctor?”

“Oh no, it’s definitely not that.” The words tumbled out too quickly, and for once the man had audacity to feel sheepish. He seemed hesitant to say much else now, as if the true weight of his words had just sunk in. Finally he wrinkled his nose, and quickly looked away from the object of scorn. “It’s just… Those galoshes.”

“You call them galoshes? How charming.” A pause, “What about them?”

“It’s just…” In a truly Julian fashion, he began to back-peddle. 

“Oh spit it out, my dear, you do know how much I hate timidness—”

“They’re absolutely _hideous_ , Garak, and it really makes me question your entire identity as a clothier. Honestly, if you’re trying to convince me that you _aren’t_ spy, you’re doing a very poor job of it.”

That caused a head to turn, but Garak ignored them. If the other medics hadn't heard the rumors around the station by now he would have been _most_ surprised. What they thought mattered little to him; they were not his target audience.

Still a small, reptilian grin crossed his features. It really delighted him so that his companion had grown so bold and frank. Truly, he'd become quite a delightful young man. “My, my, one would think _you’d_ become the tailor around here. Fortunately, my position seems safe for the time being, because I'm afraid people would take one look at your uniform and walk the other way.”

His expression furrowed into a frown, “What's wrong with my uniform? It hasn't deterred anyone yet.” 

“You'd be surprised what people are willing to put up with for a pretty face. But really, _all_ your uniforms are quite dreadful. Especially that abomination you call a surgeon’s gown. Just disgraceful.” He shuttered at the mere memory of it. That shade of red wasn't meant to match _anyone's_ complexion.

He watched as his companion’s face wrinkled with annoyance, “The surgeon’s gowns are for _surgery_ , they aren’t supposed to—you know what, never mind, my uniforms are just fine!”

“I suppose they…” He sneered, “…serve their intended purpose, but they’re so dreadfully utilitarian.” It was such a shame that the star-fleet uniforms were so unflattering. Clearly the federation was lacking sense in both humor _and_ fashion. Such a pity too, because Julian had such a nice frame.

“I’ll stick with plain and boring if it means steering clear from the abominations on your feet.” He motioned towards his footwear with his clipboard. It seemed the doctor was running out of things to do in the infirmary today, and felt the need to entertain himself by quarreling. What a dear man indeed.

“If you say so. Although I suppose it’s a god-send that your uniforms are as hideous as they are, hmm?”

He stopped writing a moment, arching an eyebrow. “Oh? And why is that, my dear, Garak?” There was a spark of mischief in his voice, and a small smile was beginning to form.

“I fear if someone _did_ clothe you properly, your patients would be far too star-struck to properly pay attention. And wouldn’t that be unfortunate, if they were rendered speechless when you were trying to examine them? Surely it must be a safety protocol to hold such charms at bay. A little Bajoran green would bring out your eyes quite well. They are _so_ very nice, you know.”

He tried to remain as impassive and objective as ever, but it proved rather difficult. More than anything, he wanted give the doctor a large feral grin, but where would the fun in that be? Better to keep him on his toes and guessing as to what his true intentions were. After all, it was oh so fun to watch the doctor spin his wheels. 

Garak watched the doctor’s mannerisms closely. The man’s nervous charm was not lost on him as he watched him fumble for his pen, and fidget uncomfortably. There was a certain honesty about him that he had always been, although a bit ironically, drawn to. That wasn't to say the doctor wasn't without his secrets, oh no, but somehow it hadn't made him any less genuine. Bashir had managed to pull the wool over his comrade's eyes, but Garak was a wolf amongst them, and he would not be so easily fooled. After all, only a man with a few things to hide could be in two people at once. Somehow the young man managed to be a brash naïve youth, while simultaneously burdened with experience far beyond his years. 

Despite such deceptions, it did not deter from how painfully genuine he was. He'd keep an eye on him for sure.

Finally, after wetting his lips a few times, Bashir shyly beamed, “You…you do me a great honor by paying me such a compliment.” 

“Oh, it's just a mere observation, I'm afraid. After all, it’s my job to notice such things. Such as how that shade of red is absolutely _dreadful_ with your skin tone.”

“My scrubs are perfectly fine.” He seemed to direct his attention to the PADD and whatever gibberish he was scrawling onto it. He watched his hands with curiosity; at first he thought it would have been amusing to see what sort of messy scrawl he had, but as he watched his long deft fingers fly over the PADD he began to reconsider his stance. He wondered how fine a stitch the doctor could make with such lovely hands. Even now he could picture those nimble hands working feverishly on a patient, fingers long like knitting needles, sewing the ragged flesh to a close. They were delicate instruments of good, rather than tools of destruction. 

They were so very different from his own.

He couldn't help but chuckle at the thought. Honestly, their lives intersected at the oddest points. Where the doctor mended people, Garak hemmed their clothes. From where he inflicted pain, there was always the delicate, gentle touch of the doctor to soothe their ailments.

“So tell me, what fabric goes with Cardassian eyes then, hmm?” His tone was precariously light, but the dark warmth in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed. Really, the intensity of his gaze was on the verge of being inappropriate.

It was a good thing that it was just the two of them then, because Garak was unwilling to share this side of the doctor with anyone else. 

“Since you consider yourself such a…oh what jargon do you teran use…fashionista?”

A snort. “You _could_ use that term I suppose.”

“If we want to nit-pick on accents and word choice, I could remind you of what you accidentally said to me the other day in Kardassi.” He lifted a ridge, as if to send the point home.

Bashir broke eye contact, shyly looking back down at the pad in his hands. “Y-yes well. My accent does need a bit of work, I suppose.” Desperate to shift the heat off of himself, he quickly threw out, “You were saying?”

“Yes, I _was_ saying something, wasn’t I? But really doctor, I’m more interested in what _you_ would have to say on the matter.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but quickly shut it. The man actually stopped himself from blurting out whatever was on his mind. Such a shame. The fact he had a response so quickly at hand hinted that he’d clearly entertained the thought before.

How intriguing.

“Really, Garak, I wouldn’t know the first thing about—”

“While I might agree with you on a different day, I would prefer if you indulged me this once.” He crossed his arms behind him, studying his prey. The man was growing more nervous by the second, and his delightful hands kept fidgeting so.

Now he was worrying his lip. How endearing. 

Finally, after taking a moment to lick his lips, he softly replied, “I suppose I could, just this once.” A half smile creased his features before he paused again, “...Blue. With accents of black and silver or maybe something else, I-I’m not sure.”

“What a lovely combination. Sharp, clean, but elegant and bold. Doctor, I do believe I underestimated you. I shan’t make the same mistake twice.”

Finally his hands stilled, and that familiar, charming smile appeared once more. “Somehow I doubt it was a mistake at all. I think you just enjoy making me uncomfortable, Garak.”

“Me? Why I'm appalled you would accuse me of such a heinous crime.” 

Bashir rolled his eyes, but the smile remained. “Oh, I’m sure. I can hear the guilt in your voice.”

“And I, the sarcasm in yours, my dear.”

“Well then, how about you make it up to me with lunch? I could always afford more instruction on my Kardassi.”

“It would be…a _pleasure_ to personally instruct you myself, I assure you. Its’ of, how shall we say, of high priority to me.”

Instead Bashir laughed, eyes crinkling with humor, as the flirtation sailed right over his head. Somehow it only made the man all the more endearing.

“I don’t think I’ll ever figure you out, Garak.”

He couldn't help the mischievous smirk that played on his features, “And I pray you never shall. What would be the fun in that?”

This time he looked directly at him, and beamed a great big smile with dimples and all.

Oh mercy, if he only knew what foolish things he was capable of doing with that smile alone.

“It looks like things are rather slow in the infirmary. I don’t think I'll be missed if I were to take my lunch break early.” He put his PADD away. “Shall we?”

“Of course.”

They exited the ward together, all the while keeping a close eye on his companion as he chattered on about this and that. 

He couldn’t help but wonder what bolt of cloth the dear doctor had been cut from. Clearly he’d seen nothing like it before, and yet it had been presented in such a beautiful yet simple form.

“Am I boring you, Garak?” He stopped, eyes still twinkling with mirth.

“I doubt that shall ever happen.”

“I share the same sentiment.”

Just what pattern was the doctor fashioned for? The question haunted him, and yet it was the most pleasant puzzle he’d had in years.

Did he dare pull at the seams, see what made him tick, take him apart—-

No.

That's what he would have done in the past. He mended things now, he put things back to together. He desperately wanted to believe that he saved things, even if they were nothing more than rags.

Sometimes, when he was feeling foolish, he wanted to be a good man. Whatever that meant nowadays, because he was not up to par by the state, his culture, his people, or that of this new foreign environment.

There simply wasn’t any good to be had.

A soft, gentle hand was laid upon his shoulder. He felt the warmth radiate from Bashir's skin. “Are you alright, Garak?”

Under his concerned gaze, he began to seriously ask himself that very question.

Instead, he settled on a neat, curt answer. “You needn’t worry about me.”

“Ah, but you know I will, so why don’t you save us both a little pain and just get on with it?”

He snorted. “Where’s your sense of sport, doctor?”

“I would prefer to pursue my medical curiosities elsewhere, thank you. Despite what you may think, I don’t enjoy seeing you in pain, Garak. I don’t enjoy seeing people in pain in general, good or bad.”

“And where would I fall in your grand scheme of things?”

A pause. “Where you fall matters not to me. Good or bad, you are Garak all the same to me, and that’s what matters most. Now really, must we continue this train of thought? It’s really quite morbid.” He shifted uncomfortably beside him.

Garak gave him a long hard stare, inspecting his posture and eying his every move.

To his surprise, he found no sign of deception. What Bashir said the whole and absolute truth. What an interesting prospect, to be genuine. He believed everything he said, and be believed it with every fiber of his being.

Despite his efforts Garak found himself chuckling. 

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, my. I don’t mean to laugh at you dear, but I do believe that’s the most foolish thing you’ve said yet.”

Bashir paused in his tracks, and sent a rather quizzical look his way.

He too stopped, but just long enough to answer his thoughtful expression. “I wouldn’t ponder on it too much, if I were you.” He started up again, and slowly left Bashir behind him, dazed and confused.

Thankfully the doctor recovered quickly, and regained his rightful place beside him, “And yet you know I will.”

“Oh of course. That’s why I keep you around.”

“And here I thought it was for my good looks and charm.”

“Those don’t hurt, I must say.”

“Oh, stop, you’re embarrassing both me _and_ yourself.” He cut his eyes away, but his trademark grin was growing larger by the second.

For a moment, Garak was forced to catch his breath. There was nothing spectacular about their interactions, but the smallest quirk of his lips made him think twice. There was just something about his eyes, the deep devotion and _kindness_ in them that made him realize for the first time just how much of a threat the dear man had become. 

He could try and push Bashir away like had done so many times before, but his enemy already had him at his knees. It didn't matter if he evened the score, the young doctor was already killing him with kindness. He felt the barbs of honesty and affection with each passing day, and he was falling prey to their cruel charms.

For the first time he found himself hesitant to parry Bashir's jab. He simply smiled, and murmured with a fondness that betrayed him in more ways than he could count, “Whatever you say, my dear.” 

Julian Bashir was going to be the death of him, one way or the other, and he didn't care.

Julian could have him, and his life.

And truly, that was the most disturbing fact of all.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I should just put up a permanent plaque that says, "Everything is Alkalyne's fault", because honestly, it is. This started out as an elaborate inside joke about my disgust for the fashion on Deep Space 9, and it sort of got horribly _horribly_ out of control.
> 
> Oops.


End file.
